


Animals

by LittlexWing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlexWing/pseuds/LittlexWing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why does Peter keep being called upon to solve the problems of teenagers? Why is there always a ten minute wait at his favorite restaurant? Why does he keep having sex dreams about someone he can't stand? Why do bad things happen to good people?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Animals

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from tumblr. Breter smut for the sake of Breter smut again.

_" Yeah, you can start over you can run free._  
 _You can find other fish in the sea._  
 _You can pretend it's meant to be._  
 _But you can't stay away from me._  
 _I can still hear you making that sound._  
 _Taking me down, rolling on the ground._  
 _You can pretend that it was me._  
 _But no, oh~. . ._

_Baby, I'm preying on you tonight._  
 _Hunt you down eat you alive._  
 _Just like animals._  
 _Animals._  
 _Like animals~. . ."_

_Maroon 5, **Animals**_   


‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

“ Those two should just fuck and get it over with.”

Humans say the stupidest fucking things, Peter swears.

He shouldn't be surprised at just how stupid these things get. One, this was from a teenager. Two, this was from a teenager named Stiles. There's a reason he mostly turns the boy out. Because he says shit like that and thinks he won't have to pay for it later.

Braeden sufficiently terrifies him into holding his hands up in placation and taking a step backwards near Malia for his extremely generous comment.

He and Braeden 'should just fuck and get it over with'.

The very  _idea_.

Who the hell would fuck Braeden anyway?

The woman is nothing but combative. She thinks she knows more than everyone else just because she happens to be a reckless little human. She's got more knowledge than the average Beacon Hills resident, granted. She's got more experience than the Scooby and the gang, granted. She's also a goddamn nuisance. She's loud. She's insufferable. She's crass. She's practically an invasive species with the way she never uses a damn door. Oh, but when she does actually use a door, she breaks the lock on it. And they still give him shit for being untrustworthy? At least he knows how to knock!

It's just a stupid little comment, but it annoys Peter for the rest of the day. It really does. What is it about him that would make  _anyone_  think that he would ever lower himself to sleeping with an annoyance like  _Braeden_? What would make  _anyone_  think she has any sex at all? The woman runs on violence and rudeness. She's probably as frigid between her legs as her damn shotgun is. Oh, sure, when she assisted Derek and himself from the Calaveras, she was looking. She was also looking as smug as a cat that they needed to be assisted in the first place. She's obnoxious, not blind. Maybe she'd be attractive herself if she could learn to keep her damn mouth shut.

Arguing with her all day and restraining himself from throwing her out of a window is pretty exhausting. He doesn't sleep long, but dealing with that much stress in one day has him wanting to konk out for a while. If for no reason other than to relax. At least in his dreams the mercenary won't get on the only nerves he has left.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

Mostly when Peter dreams, they're tinged with ashes and flames. Sometimes the antiseptic smell of the hospital. Screams. Unyielding mountain ash and brick. A red haze and a dead niece.

Sometimes he doesn't dream at all. He'd rather the restorative blackness than the vividness of memory if he had a choice.

Every once and a while though, he gets neither. Something abstract, maybe. Something completely random, more likely than that. Something he was reading before he went to sleep, or listening to, or saw on TV, or some stupid thing someone said to him and for some reason his subconscious remembers.

That's the only way he can possibly explain the type of dream he has that night.

On a balcony—not his balcony but  _a_  balcony. The city—Palo Alto?—below him. About ten stories below him. Lights behind him. Behind him because he isn't looking at the view from above. He's looking at the view into the room. Braeden's room. He knows it's Braeden's room because he can in fact see Braeden.

As a matter of fact, he can see  _all_ of Braeden since evidently she makes a habit of strutting around her hotel room in bikini style panties only. Figures. No manners. No modesty. No damned decency whatsoever. He won't address the hypocrisy in his own viewing of her near nudity from the balcony window because it's his dream and he can ignore what he damn well pleases. He won't ignore, however, the way she lays herself out on her bed like a lounging cat. No attempt to cover herself. No clothing to be found near her. Just her curvy body on the white sheets. For a moment or so, she lays idle, eyes closed. He thinks she's fallen asleep—hedonist that she is—but then her hands start moving. Over her neck, then down over her collarbone, one hand stops to cup and squeeze her breast. The other continues downward and. . .  _Oh_.

Any woman pleasuring herself is a lovely sight to behold. The fact that this woman in question is Braeden shouldn't be held against him. She's a lot of things he can't stand, but she is still a woman. And apparently not as frigid between her legs as he thought. Due to the angle she's laying at, he has to tilt his head to see her hand into those neon pink panties of her's. It doesn't take much to work herself up. She can't lie still. She can't stop moving her hips. Her lips are parted, head thrown back and he just knows she's moaning shamelessly; careless of who can hear her. No, definitely not as frigid as he thought.

Then her eyes are on him. Hooded, heated, dilated, dark with lust. She knows he's there. She's known he was there. More than that, apparently, she  _likes_  his presence. She moves from laying flat, to sitting up. Her back to the dark wood headboard. Her legs bend up at the knee, spread apart so he has an unobtrusive view; not that he couldn't see anything before. But this is just. . . indecent. His eyes follow her fingers as she starts rubbing over her  _very wet_  pussy again. Now she's just putting on a show for him. He clicks his tongue, saying something on the other side of the glass.

“Naughty girl,” he imagines it was.

Braeden gives him a cheeky little smile in response; as if she heard him. Pinches and rolls one of her nipples. Moves her fingers faster inside her panties. He can see how dark they are with wetness. He can see but not smell and that is  _incredibly_  frustrating. That's the best part of having a woman that gets so soaked. The scent of her so strong, so thick he can taste it when he breathes in.

He can hear her whimpering. Thick panes of glass between them that won't let him smell, but, oh, can he hear. Hear her getting herself close. Hear her make those sounds. Almost like begging, but without words. Those sounds stir something in him. Something that preys on things lesser than he. He could make her make those noises. He could make her beg him for mercy and only make her suffer more. Rip those hot pink panties away with his teeth and eat her alive.

In his reflection, he sees his eyes flash electric blue when her back leaves the bed. Her thighs shake when she comes, and she's  _so noisy_. She says his name. As clear and loud as if she'd sighed right into his ear.

“  _Peter. . ._ ”

\--Then Braeden sounds like The Beatles. He only has a few seconds to realize that sound is in fact not the naughty mercenary he's been watching, but his phone. And he's about to wake up.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

He sees no reason to explain why he's “such a cranky wolf” for being summoned in the middle of the night to deal with a Crocotta wallowing in the city dump.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

He remains pissed off for the rest of that night, into the morning and for the next two days. Not because of the Crocotta—though he is  _very_  upset at how dirty he ended up getting protecting his self-sacrificing nephew—but because of his stupid dream. Braeden was present when they were all in the dump. She paid him no attention, other than yelling orders at everybody to scatter when the Crocotta tried to bury them alive under a mountain of garbage. But he caught himself staring at her heaving chest and tired face once the danger was over. It was easy to match that up with what he had seen in his dreams. When he realized what he had done, he nearly buried them all again with his violent tantru—outburst. Violent  _outburst._

He  _is not_  attracted to Braeden.

Yes, Braeden is attractive—as long as her mouth is shut. But it rarely ever is. So the point is moot.

This should not be a problem he's having.

In fact, it isn't.

He firmly believes it isn't.

He sleeps like he normally sleeps (which still isn't much to be honest, he doesn't require as much sleep as he used to) for about a week.

Then out of nowhere, he has another dream. This time he recognizes the setting immediately. His apartment. It's night time. Evening. He knows the white leather chair he sits in. He recognizes the smell of the wine in the glass next to him. The moon was full before he fell asleep, and he can feel it still in his dream. It's the only light in the room. The only light he needs. Braeden is inside his apartment. That's not all that strange. Irritating, but not strange. What  _is_  strange is the way she moves around. The clothing she wears. Black dress pants. White button down. Braeden  _never_  dresses like that. She doesn't even know what nice clothes are. She has no fashion sense to speak of; formal, designer, casual or otherwise.

He isn't surprised that she complains how uncomfortable she is. Of course she doesn't like the clothes she's wearing, he can see the gold D&G logo sewn into the waistband. She'd  _obviously_  be more comfortable in something from a bargin rack.

He  _is_  surprised though when those clothes simply start coming off.

One button at a time, she opens the shirt. And then he sees it. The hint of dark red lace around the swell of her breasts. Almost as red as the wine in his glass. It seems like it takes an hour for the pants to wiggle off her hips. The reward for his patience is immediate. Black silk lining the top, the dark red lace continues. Curves around her gorgeous rear and hips. It perfectly matches the bra she reveals when the shirt slides off her upper body.

The scent of her arousal grows thicker when his eyes rove over every inch of her body. Her hands run over her neck, her breasts, over her stomach, down between her legs—and he growls. He doesn't know why he growls until she jerks her hands away.

His view changes from first person to someplace above his own body. He watches himself beckon the mercenary closer. He watches her come when she's called for once. He watches her straddle his lap and then everything shifts. Braeden is in his face, in his nose, in his ears, and in his hands. He can't take his eyes off the way his hands look, splayed over her thighs possessively, traveling up to her hips where he jerks her closer.

“ Don't be gentle,” she orders.

Isn't that adorable?

When he shifts, it surprises both of them. Braeden's scent tinges with surprise, instinctive fear that she tries to smother, but he caught it. He caught it and the huge spike in her arousal. Really, Braeden, you've no sense of self-preservation, have you?

His claws trail up the vulnerable, sensitive skin of her inner thighs. All the way up to rip through the deep red lace of her panties. His tongue runs over the scars on her neck. Scars he could open up again. Replicate. Or completely outclass with his own claws. The squirmy mercenary only bares her throat to him and pulls at his hair. She loves every second of it.

When he runs his tongue over the scars again, it's as much a tease as it is a warning.“ I'm going to tear you apart. . .” 

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

What wakes him up this time, Peter has no idea. Not his phone. Not an alarm. No disturbance in the Force. He just woke the fuck up. And he's rather furious about it. He won't think about why he's furious his dream ended early. But he will be furious and terrorize everything smaller than he is for the rest of the day.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

The first two dreams were jarring enough.

This third dream he has,  _what the hell, Hale?_

He's in the loft. In a chair. Nothing special. Nothing  _comfortable_. Just a chair. He can't move his arms. Well, he can, just not very far. They're bound behind his back. It sounds like handcuffs. Who the hell would be stupid enough to try and contain him with a wooden chair and a pair of  _human_  handcuffs?

He doesn't have to wait long for his answer.

From the top of the stairs, appears  _Braeden_. Goddammit.

She isn't dressed in nice clothes like last time. Nor is she topless and barefoot like the time before. Oh no, she's upgraded.

Violet and black lingerie. Stockings and garters. Black heels she stalks closer to him in. She seats herself in his lap like she belongs there. He expects the growl that rumbles out of his chest. He doesn't expect the biting kiss he gets for it. Violet painted, perfectly manicured nails scratch down his chest and she rolls her hips against him. He's finding it hard to completely dislike this situation.

“ I'm going to ride you, Peter,” she purrs before she bites him again. “ I'm going to ride you to my heart's content. And you're going to sit here and take it. No touching. No grabbing. No bruising. Nothing until I say. Unless, of course, you can't control yourself as well as you say you can. If it gets to be too much for you, you can always just break out of the handcuffs and fuck me however you like. But we'll both know you couldn't take it.”

_Oh._

What does it say about him that just the prospect of her little plan makes him distractingly hard?

He'll let her have her way for now. Let her taunt him. Let her try to provoke him. Let her use his dick to work herself up. Stamina she may have, but restraint she does not. All he has to do is weather her until she exhausts herself. Then he will free himself and fuck her in front of those nice, tall windows. So everyone can see what he's doing to her.

It's not as easy as he thought it would be. He assumed Braeden would be so busy riding him in hedonistic glee that it would be all she did. No, she's determined to make this as hard on him as she can. She isn't barreling towards her own climax in a selfish haze. She goes fast. She goes slow. She sits and rocks. She grabs his shoulders, his hair, his knees to use as leverage. She continues to bite, claw, yank, tear into him and when she clenches up,  _goddamn_. . .

He's actually grateful he woke up before the chains on the cuffs gave way. Not even in his dreams does he want to give the damnable mercenary the satisfaction.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

The fourth dream blindsides him completely.

It starts off a memory. Roaming the high school grounds, following his nose from the loft, around a few places in town, then finally here. The scent leads him to the hallway, intermingles with that of his nephew's and the Sheriff's and  _oh_  he does not like that. The Sheriff he could care less about. But Derek is with him. The nephew the assassin told him that he was going to kill. The original target.

Revenge for the hole in his chest is one reason he claws the assassin into a mess of meat and blood. The other is for violating the sanctity of his nephew's den. For threatening part of his pack. The only part of his pack he has left. His lunatic past be damned, he won't bury his nephew and he won't have Derek blowtorch-ed to save his life.

If that means the Mute loses his life, well, that's what he gets.

The memory pleases him. Satisfies the visceral urge to defend his own and neutralize a threat. Prove his dominance over something that challenged him. He has hunted. His own is safe—irritable because killing things makes his precious nephew uncomfortable—but safe nonetheless. His active instincts drive him to feed next. He's not so deep in his wolf that he goes out into the woods; though he has on occasion just gone hunting for the sake of eating. There's steak in his apartment, and that's what he consumes. Usually a shower follows, then maybe a short bout of sleep. Rarely, the pressure in the back of his brain flows downward and violence bleeds to lust. He wants to sate all of his appetites. He's had his fight, he's fed, now he wants to fuck.

This will be the first time in her history of letting herself into his apartment that the mercenary will be making herself useful.

He sees himself haul Braeden into the bathroom. He sees the mess they must have made getting into the shower. Torn clothing littering his hallway and bedroom. Bottles and tubes and toiletries all over the bathroom floor. The glass of his shower is fogged up. One moment he can't see, the next he can. It's jarring to be watching himself from behind and slightly above; but that's just the kind of view he has. Watching himself crowd Braeden against the wall and fuck her right into it. She looks rather extraordinary clutching at him, long legs locked around his waist and crying out for the whole complex to hear. The blood of his enemy mixed with the warm, sweet scent of Braeden's arousal make him vicious. He has to cringe at the sight of his claws damaging the very expensive mosaic tile that line his shower walls. He can't even be properly irritated when Braeden calls him an animal, because he's damn well acting like it.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

When he wakes up this time, he makes a decision.

This Braeden-attraction-sex dream thing is actually becoming a problem.

The dreams keep coming whether he sees the mercenary that day or not. Whether he argues or thinks about her or not. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. They just happen and they won't stop happening until he does something about it.

So he forms a plan.

He will find a woman that looks enough like Braeden, fuck  _that_  woman and these dreams completely out of his system, and get on with his life.

It takes longer than he anticipated. There are a few women that look almost like Braeden. There are a good number that have Braeden's attitude. The ability to back it up is lacking, but the mouthiness is there. That isn't good enough, thankfully. He estimated his search would take a week at most; ignoring everyone's calls and texts except Derek leaves him with lots of time. His problems far outweigh any sort of teenage problem Scooby and the gang could possibly bother him about.

It takes him closer to three weeks to find his prize. He's had more dreams since then. It leaves his teeth on edge. Pressure has built up in the back of his head, in his hands and legs. It's relieved somewhat when he takes the woman (Breanna? Brenda? Brandi, he's almost positive it's Brandi) out to dinner.

She's a nice girl, Brandi. Dental hygienist. Dresses nicely (Prada dress, high heels, flowery perfume that he has to ignore, but she doesn't know he's a werewolf; he won't hold that against her.) Most importantly, she's obviously attracted to him. He didn't have to work that hard at all. She asks for his opinion on the food, she listens intently when he speaks, gives him this cute little smile when he answers a question, makes the conversation almost entirely about him, she invites him to her place, she removes their clothes, she gets down on her knees without prompting, she goes well out of her way to try and please him.

He can't stand her.

Like, at all.

The only thrusting she gets from him is his hand on her face propelling her off the bed. She's  _that_  off-putting.

Of course, it's only after he's pushed her off and started to get dressed that she starts to show some form of spirit. She's  _pissed_. But it's too late. This woman is all wrong. Too pleasing, too easy, too submissive, too soft and giving and passive. This is a poor excuse for Braeden. Brandi calls him rude, selfish, inconsiderate, all sorts of proper words and things. If she would have called him a motherfucker just one time, he would have turned around and pounded her into bliss. But she doesn't. The meanest she can get is 'asshole'. Braeden calls  _everybody_  'asshole' at rest. When she's furious, she's much more colorful. The more Brandi talks, the more disgusted he is with himself for stooping so low. The sooner he leaves this bad memory behind the better.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

He's expecting the dream he has that night. Again, his apartment, but it's daylight. Something tells him it's the afternoon. He's fully dressed, sitting on his couch, reading something on his Kindle. What exactly he has no idea, the letters shift into nonsense constantly. Braeden emerges from his bedroom. Not in lingerie, not in high heels, not in panties. Just sleep tousled in one of his shirts. A v-neck, of course. On him it looks rather dashing. On her it looks rather indecent. The swell of her breasts draws the shirt tight over her upper body. It takes length away from the bottom, which ends at the top of her thighs instead of the middle. The v-neck is deep green, and it clashes with the underwear she has on with it. Orange. Her panties are fucking  _orange_. He should be disgusted. Instead the shameless display of orange has him reacting in a way orange never has before.

He growls.

She purrs.  She's taunting him.

His eyes flash.  He can smell, taste her in the air.

Then she kisses him. Then she  _bites_  him.

He grabs handfuls of her ass and hauls her up against him.

Her legs lock at his waist.

If she can  _crawl_  out of bed in the morning, she'll be a lucky woman.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

That's it.

That's the last straw.

That's all he can take.

This woman will vex him no more.

He will have her and that's the end of that.

The next time he sees Braeden, the next time they're in the same space and  _not_  at each other's throats, he bluntly propositions her.

Braeden dismisses him, citing his proposal as “some asshole Peter Hale joke.”

“ I assure you, I am quite serious,” he presses. He won't sit through another week of these irritating  _fever_  dreams. If he actually wakes up with his sheets wet like a teenager, he'll jump out of a window; end of story. His life depends on this.

Braeden is not convinced. “ You don't even like me.”

“ If I restricted myself to only the people that I liked, I'd have no sex at all.”

That she seems to believe.

Braeden consents.

Thank  _God_.

He names his conditions: Don't leave marks on him, don't get pregnant, and don't fall in love with him.

Braeden demands the same of him. He assures her that he's on the pill and his cycle isn't for another couple of weeks.

The sex they have is positively  _explosive_.

Their bodies don't just come together, they  _combust_.

They both immediately break the first rule. They don't stop fucking until Braeden is covered in his marks. His bites, his bruises, his scratches. She marks him in kind. Braeden bites more than he does. She bites, she claws, she pulls his hair, she grabs his ass, she makes so much noise.

She won't stay still. She fights him, challenges him every step of the way. Taunts him when he thinks he's won. Forces him to chase or be chased. Conquer or be conquered. 

It's glorious.

It's also a terrible mistake.

Before his dreams were just dreams.

Now he has vivid memories.

The marks he leaves on her linger. And Braeden doesn't cover them all because she's fucking indecent. It only serves to torment him. Remind him of what they've done, what  _he's_  done to her to leave those marks. She sends a charge right through him every time she rubs her shoulder, or her hip, and makes a noise because she hit one of his bruises. It's not on purpose, otherwise she'd do it more often than she does.

They argue more than ever. More violently than ever. They yell. They shout. They threaten. Things get thrown. Things get broken. Everyone gets just the hell out of their way; human or otherwise.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

Braeden's in his face like always. All challenge and fight and fire and neither one of them have sense enough to walk away or leave each other alone.

Or maybe they both knew what was going to happen.

Maybe she's flaunting the hand-shaped bruise he left on her throat.

Maybe he picks a fight because that's their foreplay.

Whatever the reason, he slams Braeden into the wall back-first.

Braeden bites him.

They fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck.

And it's  _still_  not enough.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

This is maddening.

The more he has her, the more he has to have her.

It's been a month now. A month and the heat between them hasn’t lessened in the least.

It's not just the sex though; lo but he wishes it was. The sex is just as good as it was the first time, of course. It's that good  _every time_.

But it's more than that. It's . . . it's  _her_.

The way she challenges him. The constant power struggle, even when they're fucking. The way she acknowledges his intelligence, but fights him fang and claw when she thinks he's wrong. The way she never comes quietly—Braeden never does  _anything_  quietly. She's a nuisance. Annoys him like no other. Thinks she's strong enough to handle anything. A stray cat trying to make herself into a lion. It's endearing in a way he hasn't expected.

He tells Braeden none of this. Doubts that he ever will.

He will, however, continue to have his way with her.

Every way he can think of.

As many times as they can handle.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

It's hard to maintain count. But Braeden's orgasms outnumber his about 4:1. Not because she doesn't satisfy him. But because spending hours making her squirm on his tongue, forcing her through climax after climax, satisfies him. There isn't much better than pinning her legs open with his hands and leisurely devouring her like a sweet peach. His favorite is right after he forces an orgasm on her, those seconds afterwards where she resists, where she tenses and tries to get away from him. It's nothing for him to lock his arms around her legs and hips and haul her right back onto his seeking tongue. She suffers so sweetly until she gives up the second orgasm he wants. And looks at him with nothing but satisfied hatred after the fact. He'd purr if he could.

He's finally learned what she smells like. What her arousal truly is and how it tastes when the scent curls on his tongue. Hot, sticky, sweet. He likes it. The pseudo-scent in his dream doesn't compare. He's all too happy to bury his face between her legs where he can smother his senses in it. That's probably the only time he ever cares to hold hands, so she can squeeze them and hang onto him while riding his tongue. He likes to order her to watch him. That makes it so much worse. Having to watch him get close, hover, feel the heat of his mouth, then watch his tongue before she feels it. She can't do it. She has to look away, throw her head back and moan every time. And every time he takes it out on her thighs. They're littered with bite marks and bruises before he's done.

And if her thighs aren't shaking, he's not done.

‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ― ‐ ‑ ‒ – — ―

As far as actual fucking goes, his favorite way to take her is from behind.  ~~So fucking sue him, he's a wolf.~~  With his hand at her throat, his teeth in her neck and her hands clutching his sheets desperately. He's way more forceful in this position; he's fully aware of it. As soon as his hand gets around her throat, as soon as he feels those scars  _some other werewolf_ left on her, he loses it. No other werewolf, no other person, no man's marks but his should linger on her body.

There's nothing Braeden can do but take him and make noise.

Oh, and she makes a lot of noise. He makes sure of it. His hand always finds her throat, no matter what position they're in. But he never chokes off her noises. He lives for making her shout his name.

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Post-coitus used to be something he feared. Not feared like, "I'm scared of the dark" anxiety. Feared like, “I don't want to deal with this, get off of me it's hot, you know where the door is, use it” annoyance.

That tends to be when females want to talk, or try to bond, or 'cuddle'.  _Ugh_.

Braeden's too exhausted to talk.

She doesn't seem to know how to bond. With him or anyone else really. Braeden doesn't know how to do a lot of things, come to find. She's incapable of using a washing machine with more than one setting. The dish washer stumps her. She only knows how to operate his Keurig because she mimics what she sees him do.

She's not stupid. He would never lower himself to sleeping with someone of lesser intelligence than he. Braeden just lacks experience. He can tell the difference. Like when Cora was young, and struggled to understand his and Derek's Spanish. It's not a matter of intelligence. It's a matter of lacking certain skills. Nothing that wouldn't come with practice.

Whoever Braeden used to be before she had this mercenary persona was wild. Someone removed from society, like Malia; only not as extreme.

This is also endearing in a way he hasn't expected.

What Braeden does do after they have sex fits along those lines. She sleeps, mostly. Sometimes she grooms him; that's about the only word he has for it. She smooths his hair back from the way she'd pulled and yanked it into disarray. She traces over his back and shoulders where she'd clawed and scratched him. Where the breaks in his skin heal under her roaming hands.

Sometimes he falls asleep on his own. Not as long as Braeden. ( _No one_  sleeps as long as Braeden. She could put a housecat to shame.) Sometimes he gets up to shower. He's pleased with his den smelling of sex, satisfaction and sleepy human. He's less so with the feeling of so much sweat on his skin.

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He never asks Braeden to stay. He never kicks her out either. He doesn't go out of his way to make her comfortable. He also doesn't make her feel nearly as unwelcome as he makes everyone else; barring Derek. Braeden comes and goes as she pleases. Mostly she stays as she pleases and Peter simply allows it.

Their sex life doesn't lessen in the slightest.

Their arguing doesn't lessen in the slightest.

They've just found this space in between to coexist in.

They're not in love with each other. They're both incapable of something like that. Braeden lacks the ability and he just plain lacks the interest.

So no, they're not mated, nephew. No, Braeden isn't his girlfriend, Scott. No, she most certainly isn't his “common law wife”, thank you very much, Lydia Martin.

If there is a word for what he and Braeden are, he doesn't know it. He isn't sure the name for it even exists in human language.

It's not something that keeps him up at night. He has Braeden for that. And Beacon Hills being the hotbed of unwanted supernatural activity that it is.

Frankly, he's not in a hurry to find yet another label for the humans to call him by anyway.  


End file.
